


Twice Dead, Always Loved

by theheartofadetective



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartofadetective/pseuds/theheartofadetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly struggles to find peace within herself when she is convinced that there will never be any peace for Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Molly sat in her chair, gripping the edge of the arms so tight her knuckles were practically translucent. Her eyes bulged out of her head as the words rang through her ears deafeningly.

“I am terribly sorry, Dr. Hooper, but Sherlock Holmes _is_ dead,” a large, calm smirk across his face with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He watched her squirm, quite enjoying the reaction.

“No,” she choked out.

She thought she would be more terrified that Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, was in her sitting room across from her, but the only fear that rose in her head was the thought of Sherlock possibly being gone- for real this time.

Moriarty reached into a bag, pulling out an oh-so-familiar coat and scarf; they were practically his trademark. There were rips all through the fabric and it was smeared with blood, much more than the stains left over from his jump, from when the public had denounced him dead, but she knew then that that was so very far from true.

“It’s not his blood,” she argued, trying to find another explanation.

“Really? Are you willing to challenge that? You may take it down this instant to your morgue for a DNA test,” he said with a chuckle, looking admiringly at the coat dangling from one finger. “I promise you it will not disappoint.”

She stared, unable to speak.

“Oh, come on now, Molly, don’t be so dramatic,” he said, dropping the familiar items to the floor.

Blood rushed through her head impossibly fast as the phrase would not stop repeating itself; she could only stare at the coat and scarf lying upon her floor, covered in the blood of Sherlock Holmes. She was going to be sick; a pang of nausea hit her stomach as her hand came up to cover her mouth, her shoulders lurching forward as she gagged.

“Oh, please, Dr Hooper, I really don’t like a mess,” he said, pointing his finger towards the bathroom.

Before he could even finish his sentence Molly was moving, she thought she would be permanently stuck in her seat, her fingers practically glued to the arm of her chair, but she made her way into her bathroom, wrenching every bit of the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

This couldn’t be happening, this was not happening, she just needed to wake up; it was all a dream. She lurched forward again, her stomach spasming and tears welling up in her eyes with a burn in her throat.

She finally leaned back away from the toilet, to see Jim leaning against the doorframe, his arms and feet crossed and as he watched. “You poor, poor thing,” he said, shaking his head with a mocking pout on his face. “You loved him so dearly too.”

She had never faced him as Jim Moriarty before, only as Jim from IT, which was a complete turn-around, so different she couldn’t comprehend how they had been the same person. Her eyes turned to look up at him and she stood. Her mind and body did not comprehend the same thing, but all she could see was red as her body somehow walked over to him, grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket.

Normally she would never do anything like that; she was not a violent person, she barely stood up for herself, but the rage that pierced through her made her uncaring. She was always mousy Molly Hooper but this time she just couldn’t. Why should she be afraid of him anymore? He had taken away the thing she had found solace in. He had destroyed what she had helped, she still believed in Sherlock even though she had not seen him in two years, and up until ten minutes ago she had no doubts that Sherlock would be able to return to London.

He stared at her as a contented smile was plastered on his face. He stood there and waited, knowing there was no need to defend himself; she could try and make herself seem scary-though she never would be-, and she wouldn’t hurt him.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, the smile growing wider as he leaned in closer to her, his breath against her face, “ _kill_ me?” his voice was low now, pestering her, teasing her.

Molly breathed hard breaths as her eyes were widened, staring into his and unable to move again. Her forehead covered in sweat and her stomach uneasy, but she would not back down; she wouldn’t kill him, but he wasn’t going to make her afraid, not anymore. He had bullied too many, had made the greatest person in her life die, _twice_. She wasn’t going to stand for this anymore. “I’m not like you,” she whispered, barely audible, her eyes narrowed now; she had never given anyone a look like that before. “John Watson would prefer that luxury.”

She flinched at his bellowing laugh and let go of the lapels of his coat, moving backwards only slightly as hergaze remained on him. “You think he could kill me, Molly? You sweet, innocent girl,” he said, walking towards her, scorn filling his lungs now as he spoke. “What makes you think anyone could kill me? Not even Sherlock Holmes, great Reichenbach hero, could kill me successfully.”

The words hit her again like a brick as she inhaled sharply, her breath shaking to accompany the rest of her body.

“Why- why are you here?” she asked, pushing back tears as her eyes tried to remain glazed and distant, but that was impossible to do. Moriarty knew she was broken, knew she was falling apart, but she would not give him the luxury of seeing her cry.

“Now, now, don’t be hasty,” he said. She could definitely see the psychopath in him. One moment he was calm, the next full of rage, and back to calm again; so unstable. “I was hoping there could be an exchange.”

She stared at him; if he really thought that she was going to do anything for him, he really _was_ insane. She said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I know this pretty little pathologist would like to look over his body,” he said, poking her nose as he continued; she flinched again at his touch. “I will tell you where his body is.”

She choked, she didn’t even know if she wanted to see it, but of all things he deserved respect and recognition. If this was real, his friends, the ones he cared for, deserved to know, and that burden would fall to her, this was her responsibility. “What do you want?”

Within a second of her question ending, her body was pressed hard up against the wall; Moriarty staring deadly again, desperation in his eyes. “How did he do it?” It almost sounded like a pleading.

It clicked; almost everything was different between this man she hated and the one that she loved, but they were the most curious people. It was tearing Moriarty up inside to not know how he did it. “He wouldn’t tell you,” she observed confidently, almost smiling; she looked to his face for a reaction. At least she could have this against him; _he_ could have this one thing. Even if he was dead, Moriarty would surely _never_ know.

“You’ll never know where his body is if you don’t tell me. I am sure of that.”

_“Molly, you must promise me,” he said, his eyes intent on her as he gripped her arms. “There is a very small chance that someone from Moriarty’s network will approach you; I will try my best to avoid that, but I cannot ever be sure since I will be so far away. Unless you are under immediate danger do no tell them how it was done; you must never give them that. For me, Molly; you must swear to me.” There was pain in his eyes, as much as he tried to hide it; the most personal criminal case ever placed in front of him, the victim and the detective._

_“Of course, Sherlock,” she said almost effortlessly. “I promise you.”_

_“Molly, I owe you my life.”_

She breathed confidence in her façade as she stared at him. She would do this for him, she made a promise and she would never break that. If he was gone that was the last thing he had against Moriarty; it meant that Sherlock won. She couldn’t break the peacefulness in that, not for someone she loved so much.

Her nostalgia of the memory left her silent for longer than Moriarty could handle, “I’ll kill you,” he hissed.

“You’d kill me if I _did_ tell you,” she choked out. She didn’t care if he told her that her life was in danger, she wasn’t afraid; she was determined. “You’ll never know then,” she said shakily. “John doesn’t know, Lestrade doesn’t know. They all think he died two years ago.”

His hand slid up to grip her throat as her eyes went a bit wide, failing now to hide her fear.  He did not think that Molly Hooper, fragile and frail, would be able to put him in a corner, but she did. He underestimated her; he knew she would try and stand up for Sherlock, knew she would try to resist because of her love for him, but he always was sure that made them weak. Molly by no means seemed weak in this sense.

“This is your last chance. If I leave without my information, that body will never be found.”


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up with a groan as her hand came up to touch the stinging bruise forming around her throat. Moriarty lost control when he realised that she wasn’t going to tell him. His grip around her throat had gotten tighter than he wanted it to be and caused her to pass out. He left in a fury.

She sat up and gripped the sink, trying to catch her breath as all she could remember were his words.

_I’m terribly sorry to tell you, Dr Hooper…_

No, this did not just happen to her. Sherlock was brilliant, he could get out of anything; he had to be alive. She raced out of the bathroom to see the long coat and scarf still lying on the floor and she picked them up.

_Sherlock Holmes is dead._

She had to go to the lab; she had to see if it was his blood. There was no room for crying, no room for being upset; she needed to know if this was true. She believed in him, she wasn’t going to give up that easy.

* * *

 

She tapped her foot as she was waiting for the results, pacing back and forth.

As the page printed out her heart beat out of her chest, practically ripping the paper in half as she held it out in front of her.

_DNA confirmed: Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London, England_

_Status: Two Years Deceased_

Her hands shook as she read the name over three times more to make sure that is what it actually said. She silently put the paper through the shredder as she wiped the few tears away.

She placed his belongings back in the bag as her phone buzzed and when she looked down there was a picture message sent- of course from a blocked number.

She saw a body limp against the wall-his body- blood streaming down his face from a blow to the head. She was a pathologist, she thought he looked dead, but she couldn’t tell if he actually was. She covered her mouth to hold back a sob. She felt the feeling of vomit rising in her throat again, but she couldn’t lose herself.

She needed help. She couldn’t let his body linger somewhere unnoticed, somewhere unloved; doing her work in pathology she saw the family and friends of loved ones who came in to confirm that it was the person close to them lying dead on the slab. She saw the looks on their faces and the tears falling down their cheeks. But she always knew they felt something special giving them a burial- that one last thing- giving them the recognition, the love. She needed this, as petty as it felt, she had to do this for him, and she couldn’t do it on her own.

She scrolled over a name in her contacts that she never thought she would have to use; it had been entered into her phone two years ago and never looked at after that.

 _“Mycroft Holmes,”_ the man answered.

“Mycroft, it’s-”

 _“Ah, Dr Hooper…”_ he began, _“I have been waiting for this phone call for two very long years.”_

“I need to- meet with you,” she said sadly.

* * *

 

“He came to me soon after he left your flat, Dr Hooper, so I have known just about as long as you,” he explained matter-of-factly, tea cup in hand as he had paused to finish his sentence.

“No, but you don’t understand, I- it isn’t about two years ago. Well, not really.”

He stared at her calmly, waiting.

She pushed the bag over to him, a ragged breath escaping her lips as her nervous mind did not want this to happen, she didn’t want to have to tell him about his brother. “Moriarty… he came to my flat, about an hour ago.”

She had Mycroft’s full attention now, wondering why she wasn’t dead. “He- he’s gone,” she choked, “Jim killed Sherlock.”

For a second it seemed as though Mycroft was going to panic, for one fleeting second he let the emotion dance across his features. But like his brother, the Holmes’ were quite like that, emotion was tucked behind the façade, never letting weakness suppress their strength.

The first few words seemed strangled as they left his lips, but he composed himself quickly. “And I… assume that you have checked to see that this blood is actually his?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes staring down at the coat peeking out from the bag as she spoke, still in disbelief. “Of course, and he- he sent me a picture…”

“Ah,” he replied, his face sinking into a slight frown as he tucked the coat back hidden in the bag. “And Moriarty needed something.”

“He wanted to know how Sherlock did it- but I- of course I didn’t tell him.”

“There’s another reason you called me, Dr Hooper.”

“Yes-uhm,” she wrangled her hands together, “I just think that Sherlock should have a proper burial. Jim has his body, and I-” but she stopped herself there, letting a tear escape as she immediately wiped it away.

“Sherlock was-” she began, staring far off, “brilliant, a great man… and everyone thinks he’s a fraud. It isn’t fair; he deserves so much more for what he did to save John, and Mrs Hudson, and…” but she stopped herself, her voice breaking.

There was something in her voice that caught Mycroft off guard. He knew everything about her, of course he had looked over her file, and he knew that Dr Molly Hooper, pathologist of Saint Bartholomew’s hospital, had feelings for Sherlock. But he had not seen anyone care for his brother like this before, no ever had ever loved Sherlock like this, and it made him able to sympathise as much as his mind would allow him.

“I understand,” he said after a minute, his voice sounding stern and protective now as she looked up at him. Sherlock was the closest thing he had besides his mother. He had always cared even though he tried to show the Holmes’ visage of emotional distance. He wanted his body back too as odd as he thought it was to agree with such a small request. “Something can… be arranged. We will try and find him.”

He stood up, umbrella in hand as he prepared to leave. “Thank you, Dr Hooper, for everything that you have done for my brother,” he said nodding. 


	3. Chapter 3

“John,” she said, he could hear her voice cracking through the receiver.

“ _Molly, are you alright?”_

“I need you to come over. I’m fine, but I- I need to tell you something.”

_“You’re sure you’re okay?”_

“Please just come over,” she pleaded. He needed to agree before she changed her mind, she didn’t know how she was going to face him. Mycroft was different, it was hard telling him, Sherlock was his brother after all, but John- John had taken this whole thing worse than anyone. She couldn’t even face him because of the guilt, and she avoided him for a long time. Until he met Mary Morstan, and his life got a little better. He’s never moved on fully, but she was about to break him again and it was unbearable to think about.

“ _I’m on my way, Molly.”_

She was pacing, staring as the bag lay on the floor with Sherlock’s coat and scarf laid out neatly on the table. She couldn’t just leave them like that; he loved them. Blood was a difficult stain to get out of fabric, but she needed to, she needed to do it for him. It was better than pacing through the flat constantly because there was nothing she could do, she still didn’t want to believe that he was dead, she couldn’t.

She thought she would be sick again as she waited for John to get there. She hadn’t been able to eat anything, and she certainly had gotten no sleep the previous night, but she couldn’t hold on to this any longer. John deserved to know, and nothing would be compromised now that he was… gone. If Sherlock was really dead, than Molly would have to tell him what happened.

She couldn’t stop her racing thoughts, she groaned as she dropped her head in her hands. Her eyes kept flickering over to the coat and scarf, making the memories of Sherlock flash to ones of disgust as she envisioned the picture left on her phone; his dead, limp body. She couldn’t let that be her memory of him.

She picked up the coat and scarf and brought it into the bathroom, turning on the water so it was as hot as it could be. She got out other cleaning supplies and any heavy duty cleaner that she could find that would not pull the colour from this familiar coat.

She scrubbed, and she scrubbed until her fingers were ready to bleed, the water hot against her skin, pruning from prolonged exposure to the moisture. She felt like she had been there for hours, trying to pry the image of death off of his clothes.

She was sobbing as she began to get more frustrated, completely unable to lift most of the blood off of the coat. She needed to, but she knew it was ruined.

She heard the door open but didn’t move, her hands remaining there scrubbing duty.

“Molly?” John said as he opened the bathroom door, walking up to her.

His eyes went a bit wide as he glanced at the coat, immediately knowing whose it was. “Molly, what’s going on?”

“Sherlock’s dead,” she said as the tears spilled over her eyes now, choking on her sobs as she continued to scrub and unable to look at John. “He’s dead, John.”

John stared at her incomprehensibly. According to him, Sherlock had been dead for two years now; this wasn’t anything new to him. He didn’t understand though, was she having a mental breakdown, why now?

“Molly…” he said confusingly.

“I have lied to you for two years. I don’t lie, I don’t ever, but I had no choice, he made me promise… and you’re going to hate me, John, as you should. I am so sorry,” she said.

She was in hysterics but she felt John grab her hands, stopping her from hurting herself more. “Put it down, it’s okay,” he said softly as she dropped the material, turning around to face him. She had been on her knees leaning over the tub as she realised he had lowered himself down to her level, staring at her now as he handed her a towel to wipe off her hands. “What is wrong, Molly?” his voice wrung with concern.

“Sherlock he… he wasn’t,” but she paused. This was impossibly harder than she thought it would be and she didn’t have any hope before. “He wasn’t dead,” she whispered. “He had to fake his death to save you; to save Mrs Hudson and Lestrade,” her eyes bulged as she heard the words leave her lips. Something she had not been able to say for the past two years, which had been eating her away for all this time.

“Jesus Christ…” she heard fall from his lips and her eyes clamped shut, dreading the hate that he must have been feeling towards her.

“All this time, and I couldn’t tell you. But I wanted to, believe me there was not a second that I didn’t want to, but it was unsafe. Sherlock did so much to keep everyone alive and I couldn’t ruin that, I couldn’t put anyone in danger. John, I-”

Before she realised, his hand was on top of hers that was resting on the edge of the tub and she finally opened her eyes. “What has changed?”

She flinched, unable to comprehend how he had not slapped her across the face; she definitely felt she deserved it. She had given this man the solace he was looking for her; for so long he refused to believe that Sherlock was dead, it was like she felt now, it was just impossible. But she was about to end that as soon as she had fixed it. “Moriarty… he was here- yesterday,” she trailed off.

“I thought Moriarty was dead,” he said, anger spiralling around his words.

“I thought he was too… until he came here to tell me…”

“Yes?”

“John,” she said, crying harder again as she had to force the words out. “He killed him again, for real this time.”

* * *

 

Her sobbing had stopped, but silent tears were forcing themselves down her cheeks as she continuously wiped them away, watching John pace back and forth across her sitting room. He was trying so hard to comprehend all that she had said to him, a grave and grim look across his face; it was as sad as the day of the funeral, she had brought him back to day one.

He could see it evident from the coat and she had shown him the picture she received on her phone, and she had then gone on to explain what she asked Mycroft for.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her hands in her lap, wet from the tears she was continuously trying to stop. “I just- you needed to know; you of all people.”

He stopped pacing and he sat down in the chair across from her, letting out a sigh, and strain in his voice as he spoke. “I know that it was not your fault,” he said mechanically, his head still spinning.

As he looked back up at her he finally realised the bruising on her neck and he gasped. “Molly…”

“That was Jim, yeah…” she said, uncomfortably shifting in her seat.

“Are you okay?”

“No, John,” she said honestly. “No, but this tougher on you, and I- I can’t… I understand how you feel now. He can’t be- he can get himself out of anything.” Her voice was quieter now, whispering. “I just don’t understand.”

* * *

 

Molly sighed as she sewed up the body of the man in her morgue; he had committed suicide, jumped off of a ten story building and to his end. It was surfacing everything, but then again, everything always did.

It had been four months since Moriarty had come to her flat to tell her the news that still haunted her and she felt empty, like something had been taken from her, something had been taken.

It took John over two months to be able to see and talk to Molly. He always told her he wasn’t mad, but she knew he had been upset with her, and she didn’t blame him in the slightest. He did truly know it wasn’t her fault, but he just didn’t understand how to comprehend the entire situation. But they tried to help fix each other, they could at least talk about it now, she could finally tell someone.

She didn’t forget that it had also been four months since she asked Mycroft for help and he had said not so much as a word to her. She had called two or three times to see if anything was new, but he told her nothing. He had to be discreet if he was ever going to work around Moriarty, but by now she was losing her hope that it would ever be found. She feared London would always believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, that he invented Moriarty and that he died in disgrace.

She tried not to think about it, but it overwhelmed her. Sherlock didn’t deserve this; even if he was cruel to others with his deductions, even if he failed to see or apologise for hurting people, he was a good man- a great one. He used his intelligence to help people, he had fixed John, he had brought excitement and hope to Molly’s life, and she didn’t know what to do now.

She wanted to believe that he was still alive, that Moriarty lied to her, but there was no way. You couldn’t survive after losing as much blood as was soaked up into his coat. _The coat_. She couldn’t bear to let go of it yet. She had given up trying to get the stains out, but she left it on a hanger and hung it off her closet. She could always see it in her bedroom, it had become a part of the room and it was her way of holding on.


	4. Chapter 4

“Molly- it’s me, I’m alive,” he said, bringing her hand up to his face. He held it there against him, pressing his hand into hers, letting her know he was there, and he was tangible.

“How? You can’t be… Moriarty told me…”

“Moriarty is dead.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t real, this can’t be real,” Molly said, the tears falling from her cheeks.

“Do you really think I would let him get away, Dr Hooper?” the face grinned, deceiving her as the face turned to Moriarty. She gasped, her nails digging into his cheek as her other hand gripped the handle of the knife sticking into her stomach.

Molly woke up from her nightmare with a jump, her hand resting where the knife puncture would have been, inhaling deeply as she groaned. Five months that she had tried to pick herself back up from the death of Sherlock Holmes, five months with barely any word from Mycroft and her hope was drifting, but she tried so hard not to. Mycroft needed to find him, Mycroft would find him. He was the bloody British government for God’s sake, he had to find him.

This was going on forever; every night the dream was different. Sometimes Sherlock would turn into Moriarty, sometimes it would begin with Moriarty in the first place, and other times she would be lifted from the image of Sherlock being back, taking her away from what she wanted.

* * *

 

Molly traced the outline of her coffee cup as John spoke to her, the both of them melancholy and secretly nostalgic. They had gone to have coffee with all intentions of avoiding the subject, avoiding Sherlock, but it never ended up that way. There was too much pain, even after all of these months trying to get over him, John trying for the second time now.

Her heart constricted in the way that John made her remember Sherlock.

“So Molly, I’m sure you’ve had a nice date with a nice bloke?” he had said it to lighten the mood, with all hopes of her saying yes; he wanted a happy topic.

Molly froze in her spot and John watched as she looked even sadder than before, making his face drop. “I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s absolutely fine,” Molly said with her eyes dead set on her coffee cup. “It’s quite pathetic,” she said bitterly; “I should be over this by now. He never had any interest in me anyway.” She choked on the last words as they left her lips, but she believed it in every way. He was married to his work; he loved it, and died with it.

In a way it had been easier for John; Mary had been there to pick up the pieces for him, and when it happened again, Mary was still there, holding him together as much as ever. He was able to function more than Molly could admit she did. John had also done this before; it had hurt just as much in the beginning, but he had more time to sort through all of these feelings.

They were silent for a long while before John spoke up again. “Molly?”

She looked up at him as he continued. “Why did Moriarty come to your flat that night?” he asked solemnly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“He wanted to know how.”

“How?”

“How he did it- how Sherlock faked his death. He said he would tell me where his body was in exchange for it…” she said, struggling with the end of the sentence.

“Ah,” he said, looking to her, wondering, but she shook her head because she knew what he was thinking.

“I… can’t; I gave him my word, John. I don’t know who he wanted to know. And I’m sure he would want you to know if there was anyone, but I can’t ever be sure.”

“He liked to be mysterious,” John said nostalgically, “we can at least let him have that.”

As Molly opened her mouth to reply her phone went off. She gazed at the number to see that it was Mycroft and part of her couldn’t help having a spark of hope.

“Hello?” she said frantically, desperate for something. She felt so silly for wanting his body, for wanting to see him one last time. It was the only thing she could do though; there was no other way to solve this. It wasn’t like Reichenbach, it wasn’t like when she helped him fake his death. This was _real_ ; no more games.

“ _Dr Hooper, this is the last time I will be calling you about this matter_.”

She shifted uncomfortably, holding the phone closer to her ear and listening carefully. John watched her face as it kept changing expressions.

“ _I am calling to inform you that I will no longer be looking for my brother_ ,” he said, his voice cold, flat, expressionless.

“What? Why?”

 _“I can no longer spare any men on this task,”_ he said, voice still void of emotion, _“it is beginning to waste time.”_

John watched her expression turn angrier and confused than he had ever seen her, he was growing concerned. “ _Wasting your time?”_ she practically spit out. “You’re talking about your brother? Have you no respect? You can’t do this; we all owe this to him.” They had been sitting outside the café, but a few glanced her way as her voice was rising, cracking as she could not believe what she was hearing.

“ _Goodbye, Dr Hooper_.”

She stood up in her chair, almost yelling into the phone now as the line was already dead. “You can’t do this! You can’t just… abandon him. How is that fair? Don’t you love him?”

She didn’t think her heart could break any more, she didn’t think her hope could break, but it did.

She turned her head around fast to glance at John squeezing her shoulder, trying to figure out what was going on. “He gave up; he’s not trying to find his body,” she sneered. “Sherlock will never have any peace.”

* * *

 

For three weeks Molly couldn’t convince herself to talk to anyone; she avoided John’s phone calls, Mary’s phone calls, Lestrade’s pleas to have coffee with her. She couldn’t handle anything right now. This entire time she had hoped maybe if she had seen his body, maybe it wouldn’t be what Moriarty said. Maybe he wasn’t dead, maybe it was like Reichenbach- maybe, just _maybe_ things could have been normal again for everyone. But now it was over, it was absolutely real.

Mycroft’s phone call had broken her and if anyone had tried to speak to her, she would take it out on them, and that was not Molly Hooper; she was kind to everyone. She couldn’t find it in her to pull herself back together, and she wouldn’t burden anymore. She felt it was best to just keep away, wait until she could forget, somehow move on.

She found that she was darkly consoled by spilling her feelings to corpses at work as she gave them autopsies. The ones of homicide she would always promise to do as much as she could to get them justice; it was the only way she could think to cope.

She had finished up the rest of her shift and went home sluggishly, tired and drained from the day. Lately, she had always felt worn out though. She dragged her feet in the door and dropped her belongings to the floor next to her shoes, going into the kitchen for a glass of wine.

She swished it around as she watched telly, trying to pry her mind away from things, and hoping the wine would loosen her up and keep her away from the dreams that refused to let her move on.

She sat there thinking; not knowing how long had passed as her eyes watched the television, but took nothing in. She finally snapped to attention as she realised her eyes kept fluttering closed on her, her whole body finally realising that she needed rest.

She went into her bedroom and fell on the bed, taking in a deep sigh as she turned around so she was lying on her back. She was only there for a few moments before she realised that something wasn’t right; something was off, missing. She glanced immediately to her closet door, seeing the empty hanger on the top and grabbed her phone.

Why were his coat and scarf gone? Who would need to take them? She could only think that this was Moriarty; who else would it even be? She dreaded to even think.

She knew it was ridiculous to call John at one in the morning, but she was nervous, unsure if she should panic.

“ _Hello_?” the familiar voice came on the other line; clearly she had not woken him up.

“John? I- I think Moriarty’s back,” she said, staring at the empty spot on her closet door.

“ _Slow down, Molly. Why do you think that? What’s going on? Are you hurt?_ ” She could hear the faintness of John talking, almost bickering with someone that must have been in the room with him, but she barely took notice of it.

“Sherlock’s coat and his scarf; they aren’t here, I didn’t move them, someone must have taken them and I don’t know who else it would be.”

John gave out a sigh as he relaxed. “ _Molly, why don’t you come over to Baker Street?”_

“Oh- okay, are you sure? It’s late, I didn’t mean to-”

“ _Yes, please, come here,”_ he said quickly.


	5. Chapter 5

She felt bad for intruding; he was probably spending time with Mary and she really didn't want to bother them. She felt it was important enough though, she didn't want to be alone if Moriarty was back; he obviously had intentions of talking to her if he had been to her flat, he knew she would notice Sherlock's stuff missing.

She decided to make up for it by bringing something with her, searching for a place that was open late enough to serve coffee. She tapped her foot as she waited for the cab to reach Baker Street; it was taking so much longer than she felt like it should.

She opened the first door to 221B and continued up the stairs, seeing the other cracked open. The first thing to catch her eye was a bag that looked familiar, with Sherlock's coat and scarf hanging out of it… that was odd? Why did John have it? How did he get it?

She pushed it open with one hand as she held the tray holding the coffee she had brought over, and stopped dead in her tracks, completely forgetting about the bag.

"Shit, Molly, you have to stop having dreams like this..." she said aloud to herself, staring as it was not John in the room, but Sherlock; Sherlock Holmes, standing in 221B. He was alive, bruised and cut, but alive. She put the tray of coffee down without taking her eyes off of him, trying to collect herself.

"You're not dreaming," he said, a faint smile on his face. He finally saw her for the first time in over two years; it felt relieving. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't missed her since he left. He had missed everyone really, especially John, but with Molly it was a different feeling; one that he couldn't explain. There had been a new closeness established that made him less willing to walk away from her, from everything, after his fall, but he wouldn't admit that. And he frankly didn't have a choice in the matter if he wanted her everyone safe; her safe.

"This one feels so real," she mumbled as he walked over to her, standing close as she moved her hand up to touch his face; it was so familiar from what normally occurred in her dreams. She smiled at first, taking him in as his blue eyes were almost lit up, excited to see her. He was waiting for her to finally come to her senses but she let her eyes close, hand still on his face and her brow furrowing.

"Molly-"

"You usually turn into Moriarty now," she whispered with dread in her voice but nothing happened, she felt no pain. She could have sworn that this was always the moment when he jabbed a knife into her abdomen, but her thoughts fleeted elsewhere when she heard Sherlock sigh.

She opened her eyes as they began to gloss over, becoming unsure as she began panicking, tears welling up. "You're still you."

He sighed again, "yes, Molly, because you are not sleeping."

"I have to be," she said, tears falling down her cheeks as she stared at him. She knew she wasn't dreaming anymore, but she was afraid to believe what was in front of her. "You died, Sherlock, again; for real this time." Both of her hands were cupping his face now as her voice shook and her head spun; she was dizzy.

He gripped her shoulders to hold her steady, his face creeping into a smirk. "You should discredit your sources."

"Moriarty told me, Sherlock," she said in horror, shaking her head. "He came to my flat and told me that you were dead,"

He stiffened at the thought of Moriarty anywhere near her, near anyone that he cared about, but he knew it was an irrational feeling since it was no longer possible. "I'm not, Molly," he said, attempting to console her. "I'm right here."

She leaned into him gently as the tears continued, mumbling something inaudible against his chest as she choked on her sobs. He didn't understand what she was saying, but he was quiet and patient as she fell apart against him.

* * *

They were sitting on the sofa now as she kept her head against his chest, sniffling as she calmed, with Sherlock petting her hair to soothe her; it was obviously working. Her eyes kept closing as she fell in and out of sleep, trying her best to keep awake.

Sherlock heard the faintness of footsteps as someone was coming up the stairs of 221B; he knew it was John by the lightness of his walk.

He came into the room silently as his eyes were immediately on the sofa, seeing Molly falling asleep on Sherlock and Sherlock's shirt wet from her tears; John gave him a look of confusion. He knew Molly would react so emotionally when she found out about Sherlock, and that's why John had left to Mary's; he figured it was best to give them privacy, but he didn't expect Sherlock to look so relaxed by the fact that she was in such close contact with him. It was surprising, but Sherlock had a look of relief on his face as Molly lay against him. When Sherlock met John's glance, he gave him a slight shrug, trying not to move as to not wake Molly, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist.

It was quite odd how Molly's demeanour was vastly different with Sherlock and his with her. She immediately felt comfortable around him; maybe it was just from the shock, but she refused to move away from him. She had an irrational fear that if they were separated, he would fade away and it _would_ be a dream.

He welcomed it though, evidently missing her even if he would not say so. He consoled her, and quickly accepted why she was upset, why she needed the close contact. He did his best to dismiss the fact that he would normally perceive the behaviour as irrational.

John had walked to his bedroom, leaving them be to their still private moment; it at least felt private with someone so close to Sherlock. John had never seen it before and he felt it best not to do anything to ruin it; he knew by the looks of Molly she still needed the comforting anyway.

John had closed the door quietly, but it was still enough to stir Molly. She left out a soft groan as she shifted herself closer against him. She felt odd to be so unperturbed over a man she practically tripped over two years ago. But all that mattered right now was that he was here, he was alive, and now he was safe.

She sat up finally, rubbing her eyes as she finally gazed into Sherlock's again. Her hand immediately came up to his face, her thumb skimming over a cut on his cheekbone, still unaware of what happened.

"Mycroft stopped looking for you," she said, strain in her voice. "He told me-"

"He lied; he didn't want suspicion."

"But the picture, Sherlock," she said, pulling out her phone and showing it to him, "and the blood." He glanced at it for a moment but then looked away from the phone and to her widened doe eyes.

"Moriarty found me in Germany; he had been chasing me through central Europe for a year, but I hadn't known it was him until his men approached me," he said as he stared off distantly, thinking about the past before Moriarty had trapped him. "I had been there for eight months before Mycroft found me, which explains the blood he collected from me over time, and it was only after Mycroft I found a way to eliminate Moriarty; he's gone now," he said coolly.

Molly kicked herself for so easily believing Moriarty. Jim had always had a way with words, and he knew exactly what to say, what to do to make Molly believe him; it hadn't been that difficult for him really. She had always believed in Sherlock and she should have trusted herself in that he could get out of anything, but the thought of him being gone had shaken her and she had no proof that he had been still alive.

"As far as the picture," he started up again, looking to her now, "Molly, with your training you should know that death could not be indefinitely determined by that."

She bit her bottom lip, "I know, I just thought-" her voice cracker. .

He cupped her chin, pulling her face a bit closer to his. "Molly, I am here, I am  _fine_."

A few tears slipped down her cheeks and into his hand, but she moved her eyes down, looking away from him. "I know I just didn't- I didn't understand what it felt like to think you were actually gone. I could have fixed the pain John was feeling, and Mrs Hudson, and…" she trailed off as he pressed his thumb to her lips, silencing her. He hesitated before he spoke.

"Thank you, Molly," he said, letting out a sigh, "for everything you've done for me." He leaned in, kissing her cheek.

He pulled his head back, watching her smile finally and it relaxed him; he had never understood the concept of caring so much. It surprisingly overwhelmed him to see how hurt she was, how much she let out even though the issue she was so upset over was solved and he was there in front of her.

She finally stood up as he released her chin, "it's almost four in the morning," she remarked, feeling like she should leave, but not wanting to; that was the last thing she wanted to do. She still didn't want Sherlock out of her sight; but he knew that, he recognised her fear.

He nodded at her though, watching her carefully as she walked over to the coat rack. It was stupid of him to want her to stay; she would just be sleeping anyway, there would be no logical reason to want her there, but he did.

He may not have grasped this entire concept, and was new to seeing people dealing with their feelings and emotions, but it made him want to be protective of her. Every time his eyes scanned her red and puffy worn-out ones, he wanted to pull her to him.

She put on her coat and walked over to the door, gripping the handle tight as she hesitated, her back facing him. She stood there, her head down as she let out a heavy sigh; she didn't want to do it. There was something else; there were words dancing over her lips for so long that she felt were necessary to say, necessary to tell him, regardless of how he replied.

"Sherlock, before I leave, there's something that I need to say," she said, turning around and walking back over to him, her face close to his, her breath playing on his face as he stared down at her.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, continuing to watch her. He was scanning her face, trying to deduce what she was going to say in her short second’s silence.

“Yes, Molly?” he breathed.

“I-,” _great_ , she was feeling that nervous composure bubbling back up as she was trying to say the words that needed to be said. She had felt this way since she met him, and she wished she had said it before he left two years ago.

 _What if you never had the chance to say them?_ The thought flashed through her head for a full twenty seconds before she finally told herself to just do it.

“I love you, Sherlock,” she said quietly, her eyes looking away from him, worried in how he would react. God, he had never loved her, he wasn’t going to want her. “And it’s-it’s fine, but I just- up until a few hours ago, I didn’t think I would ever get the chance to tell you, and I needed you to know. I at least needed to say it,” she said, finally breathing.

He pushed a piece of hair behind her ear and it caused her to look up at him, softness in his eyes but strain in his voice as he spoke. “I disliked being away from you, Molly.”

She knew what he meant; she knew it was his way of saying that his feelings were there, and because she knew how he was, it was enough. She stood on her tip toes as she softly pressed her lips to his, not knowing what was coming over her and hoping to God she would get some kind of response. At this point she was hoping that she was dreaming about this part. Maybe she was still asleep on him.

Sherlock was frozen in his spot, his mind stopping as he processed what was happening. He felt Molly’s soft lips against his and he stood there. It wasn’t until she started pulling away that he realised what that actually was.

For a second he saw sadness in her face as she was pulling away, proving herself correct when she didn’t want to, but it was expected. He grabbed her chin and pulled her mouth back up to his, responding to the kiss passionately this time as he let himself give in. This was the feeling constricting in his chest he had wanted to succumb to since he heard her voice through John’s phone earlier in the evening.

Her arms wrapped around his neck as she kissed him over and over, a soft sigh escaping her as she lost herself against him. His lips felt so different than she had imagined; soft, full, not the hardness she was expecting from a man who tried to seem so detached on his outside exterior. One hand stayed wrapped around his neck as she pulled the other back to press her hand against his face.

Sherlock wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him as he felt her lips part, her tongue reaching out to graze over his bottom lip as he reacted to her, kissing her harder now. She kissed him desperately, the contact becoming hungry as her want took over. She pushed herself impossibly closer against him, biting his lower lip as he let out a breathy groan.

His hands slid down to her waist, gripping them as he pushed his own hips against her. She had been away from him for so long, and she had wanted this even longer. Her need for contact was frantic and she would not be pried away from his touch. She loved him, and this was a start. She was surprised he had even returned the kiss, let alone the way he was letting his hands explore her still-clothed body. His movements were not as desperate as hers, but he found himself craving her touch all the more as she gave it to him; he wanted her against him as her lips moulded against his.

Molly pulled her hands down and ever so gently rested them on his chest, trying to nudge him backward. He took the hint as he grabbed her hand, pulling her down the hallway. He turned around again before they reached the end of the hall, wanting to meet his lips to hers again, having not wanted them to be parted in the first place. He pulled her into his bedroom and shut the door behind them.

John had come out of his room again to make sure that Molly was alright, and as he looked down the hall he saw Molly going into Sherlock’s room and his eyebrow raised, wondering what the hell was going on.

He walked over to the door, staring at it, hesitating in wonder of what was going on; but what his mind went to was uncharacteristically not Sherlock. His knuckles didn’t get a chance to meet the door before there was a thump against it from the other side.

He put his hands up in defeat as if someone was looking at him, deciding that he didn’t want to know.

On the other side of the door Molly’s eyes went wide as she was backed up against it, Sherlock pressing into her as his lips grazed along her jaw, making her skin tingle long after his mouth abandoned the spot.

Her hands moved along his chest, trailing up as she found the top button, her fingers slightly trembling as she began unbuttoning, and his mess of curls blocking her from seeing what she was trying to do. His face was pressed against hers as he found something that made her squirm. He nipped at the spot under her earlobe as she gasped.

He continued his way down her neck, kissing and sucking hard enough that it would surely leave marks, but she didn’t care. Her hands continued to search for the buttons hidden as she arched her back against the door when she felt his cold hands slide under the hem of her shirt, pushing it up. She lifted her arms instinctively as he pulled it off of her, throwing it somewhere in the room.

Her hands slid up into his hair as she let out a whine, tugging before sliding her hands back down just a bit so she could make him look up at her, her swollen lips searching for his.

She pushed herself off of the door as he backed up over to the bed, turning around and pushing her down onto it. His fingertips slowly traced up her stomach to find that her bra hooked in the front, unhooking and pulling it out from under her; she internally praised herself for the convenient choice. He was leaning over her, finding the soft skin of her collarbone and neck as he let himself explore every inch.

She rolled on top of him now, kissing him intensely. She moved her hips in a gentle circle against him as he let out a low, guttural groan, bucking his hips against her instinctively. Her breathing was ragged now as he gripped her waist.

All of his buttons were undone as she pushed his shirt away from covering him. She pressed her hands against his chest, letting them explore this newly accessible surface; she had dreamed of his well-built body, but she never imagined that she would be in the position to let her hands discover.

She let one trail down to graze over his pants as he bit her bottom lip a bit harder than before. He sat up with her straddling his lap as his hands slip up her sides to cup her breasts, gently teasing one of her nipples with his index finger.

Her hands immediately moved to find his pants, undoing them as she began to roll her hips against his again, moving her mouth back to his collarbone, nipping frantically- still desperate for him.

Sherlock pushed her back down on the bed as his hands came down now, his fingers tucking into the band of her pants as he slid it down, her knickers along with it. She then began to push his pants down as he wiggled out of them, losing them among the rest of their clothes on the floor.

He was in between her legs now, pressed against her wet entrance as she wrapped her legs around him. He stared down at her as he paused; taking her in, how different she looked to him now. Her lips were swollen, hair in disarray, and her eyes blazed with want for him- it looked more like need, but she waited patiently. His hand cupped her cheek as he leaned down to lightly kiss the other.

He pulled his head back a little only to find her lips again before pressing himself into her, hearing a small whimper elicited from her throat. He was gentle at first, but it was becoming overwhelming, exciting as she kissed him fiercely, swelling his lips with her love bites. Her nails dug into his shoulder as he began to find a common rhythm with her, her quiet whimpers turning into louder moans of passion.

As his thrusts became harder he moved in and out of her faster, breaking his mouth away from her and she could hear his unsteady breath. It was only a moment before his lips found his way back to her skin, kissing along her neck as he drove harder into her. She quickly moved her hands into his curls, tugging on them tight as she could feel her body tensing, getting tighter around him as her climax reached peak, Sherlock’s name moaned softly off her lips.

It did not take long before Sherlock’s release came, riding out the waves of pleasure as his movements became gentler with her.

As he rolled onto his side her hands were still entangled within his hair as she breathed hard, pushing herself against him as she continued to kiss him. The intense orgasm had made her head spin as she was frantic with his mouth for another minute before her fatigue was becoming evident.

Her kisses became gentle and loving now as she finally came down from the extreme feeling.  Sherlock caressed her cheek with his thumb as he returned her innocent kisses, pulling her body even closer to his.

When his lips finally broke away from hers, he nudged his nose into her hair and against her throat. This was an insanely new closeness, definitely nothing he had ever experienced anyone, but he found his mind quiet. He didn’t have the energy to find a logical reason to fight it right now. After a moment he felt her let out a contented sigh as she was against him.

He lifted his head up and shifted so he was on his back which allowed her to put her head on his chest as her hand found his, lacing her fingers with him.

She pulled their hands over to rest a small kiss against the back of his hand. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Molly,” he whispered back, kissing the top of her head.

She knew that if this really was going to work, it would take a long time emotionally. She knew things would be different, but he was honest, she’d know in good time exactly how he felt; and certainly by the current event there was something there. She would be patient, she would remember that the man that she loved was different, and she knew eventually- well, maybe eventually- he would be able to say those words back to her. 


End file.
